The Day After Never - Retribution (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 4) (28 page)

Arnold gave Sal a reassuring grin. “If there was, I’d have personally blown their head off.”

Sal nodded and offered his hand to shake. “Then consider us in.”

Chapter 42

Lucas stirred when he heard the bolt on the door screech open and prepared for the ordeal to come. He’d always known the risk he was taking, and now it was time to pay the piper – in blood. That Tim would wind up dying horribly was an abomination, but it was too late now to do anything. He knew that he and the boy would be killed whether or not he gave them what they wanted, so there was no point in doing anything but tuning out and seeking refuge in the deepest recesses of his mind, where nothing could reach him.

The door opened and Lucas looked up. An older man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and a gray shirt covered in blood stepped in. A satchel hung from his shoulder, and he clutched a holstered gun in one hand and a key in his other. He hurried to Lucas and knelt beside him.

“Lean forward. I’m going to uncuff you,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Whitely. I’m one of the rebels fighting the Crew. From Lubbock. I was tight with Jacob and Eddie.”

The right cuff snapped open, and Whitely went to work on the left. When it dropped on the floor, Lucas flexed his fingers, trying to coax the circulation back. Whitely grabbed one of his arms and helped him to his feet, and then handed him the holstered gun.

Lucas’s eyes widened when he saw that it was his Kimber. Whitely reached beneath his loose shirt, removed Lucas’s big Bowie knife, and gave it to him. “Sorry I couldn’t get your night vision gear, but it’s broken, so wouldn’t do you a lot of good.”

Lucas strapped on his pistol and checked the magazine – full, he could tell from the weight. He verified that a round was chambered and then slid his belt through the slots in the knife sheath and buckled it.

Whitely looked over his shoulder at the door. “Hurry up. We need to get out of here. They’ll be coming for you any minute.”

Lucas eyed him suspiciously. “How are Jacob and Eddie doing?”

“They…they didn’t make it. I’m sorry. Nothing I could do to save them.”

Lucas nodded and followed Whitely to the door. Whitely poked his head out, cast his eyes about, and then took off down the hall toward the rear of the building. Lucas took in the blood-covered form of a guard on the floor and kicked the man as hard as he could, verifying that he was dead. Satisfied, he trotted to where Whitely was waiting.

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m going to lead you to one of the loading docks. They expect you to go out the north dock. You’re going to go out a different one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I convinced them that the only way we’d find Sierra was to break you out and then follow you to her.”

Realization lit Lucas’s eyes. “They think you’re working with them. This is all part of a ruse.”

“Correct. What they don’t know is that I actually
am
with the rebels, that it’s not just a cover story.”

“Won’t it be hard on you when things don’t go the way they’re supposed to?”

Whitely shook his head. “Things never go as planned. Entropy and chaos. Not my fault.” He stopped and peered around a corner, and then took off again. When they reached another steel door at the end of the corridor, Whitely grimaced. “Besides, you’re going to conk me on the head with your gun, so it’ll look like you overpowered me once we were at the loading dock. That way it will seem like I was out cold and had no idea you were going to double-cross me.”

Lucas nodded. “Dangerous game.”

“I’ll have the wound to back my story.”

“What about the boy? I’m not leaving without him.”

Whitely pushed the door open and motioned for Lucas to follow. “I didn’t think you would.”

“You killed the guard?”

“No. That was faked.”

Lucas nodded again. “I could tell. He’d been dead for more than a few minutes.”

“You actually killed him – he was the first man you shot.”

“Don’t suppose you have my crossbow, do you?”

“Negative. Just be glad they went for my idea. Otherwise they’d be slicing and dicing you and the boy as we speak.”

Whitely led Lucas across a warehouse filled with plastic crates containing rum bottles. He pointed to one of the roll-up doors. “That’s where you’re supposed to duck out. They’ve got a party in place to track you.” Whitely turned and pointed to the far end of the warehouse. “Go out through that door, make for the south end of the fields, and you’ll avoid them completely.”

“And the boy?”

Whitely indicated a stack of crates. “He’s behind those. I had to tie him up to make sure he didn’t run off. He’s scared and doesn’t trust anyone – for good reason.”

A thought occurred to Lucas, and he unbuckled his belt and slid off his sheath and holster. He withdrew the blade and closely examined the leather of the sheath, feeling with his fingers along the inside as far as he could, and then repeated the inspection on the holster. When he was done, he nodded. “Eve had a tracking chip on her.”

“You should check the boy, too, just in case.”

“I plan to.”

Lucas crossed to the crates and looked behind them. Tim was on the floor, his hands bound behind him along with his ankles, clearly terrified. Lucas crouched down and whispered to the boy.

“Your mom sent me. My name’s Lucas. I’m here to get you out of here.” He studied the boy. “Understand?”

Tim nodded, though his eyes were still distrustful. Lucas saw the look and leaned in closer. “Look, you have to stay quiet or we’re both dead. Your mom’s waiting not far from here. Do what I say, and you’ll be with her within an hour. Make a sound and you screw the whole thing up.”

“What’s her name?” Tim asked.

Lucas smiled. “Sierra.”

“How do you know her?”

“I rescued her from the Crew, same as I’m doing with you.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You own her?”

Lucas shook his head. “More like she owns me. It’s complicated. But no. We’re all free. Nobody owns anybody.”

Tim grappled with the explanation and nodded again. Lucas withdrew his Bowie knife and severed his bindings with the razor-sharp edge, and then sheathed it and lifted Tim to his feet. The boy couldn’t have weighed more than fifty pounds, and Lucas frowned at the mistreatment that would result in a boy his size being so thin.

Lucas did a methodical search of the child’s clothes and reassured himself that there was no obvious tracking device, and then turned to Whitely and pulled his Kimber free. Whitely’s eyes tracked it and he winced. “I suppose you have to make it convincing. Let’s go over to the loading dock so there’s no mistaking you clobbered me as I was leading you out.”

“Fair enough.”

The older man walked to the door. “Good luck, Lucas.”

“Same to you. Turn around and close your eyes.”

Whitely did as instructed, and Lucas clubbed him in the side of the head with the butt of the Kimber. Whitely dropped heavily to the floor, and Lucas caught him before his head could strike the ground. He set him down gently and leaned down to check his pulse, and then straightened and held out his free hand to Tim, eyeing his homemade sandals.

“Gonna have to get you some boots,” Lucas said, and Tim reluctantly took his hand. “Remember. Not a sound.”

And then they were running for the door, Tim’s small feet pattering on the concrete at twice the rate of Lucas’s, the area so dark they could barely see except for the glow of ghostly light drifting from the high windows.

Chapter 43

Outside the plant, Lucas pulled Tim along toward the far left cane field, his eyes adjusting to the dark as they ran. The ground was soft and spongy from the rain, which had abated at some point during the night, but distant pulses of lightning foretold more downpours to come.

They paused at the first gap in the tall sugar cane, and Lucas whispered to the boy, “You know these fields pretty well?”

Tim nodded.

“Get us to the fence the fastest you can. They’re waiting for us over there,” Lucas said, indicating the field to their right. “So we need to go the opposite direction.”

“Okay. This way.”

Now it was Tim’s turn to lead Lucas, who wasn’t thrilled with the idea of his life being in the hands of a ten-year-old. They stayed low as they ran, the ground giving beneath their feet, and Lucas silently damned the rain for creating an environment where their tracks would be obvious. His only hope was that it started pouring again before the Crew picked up the scent, because otherwise they’d be in a race that they couldn’t win.

Tim directed them through a gap and they jogged along another row of cane. Lucas checked over his shoulder periodically to ensure they weren’t being followed, though the loss of the night vision monocle had eliminated an important edge he’d counted on having when they escaped.

His plan in tatters, he allowed a child to pull him through the night, praying that the boy knew what he was doing – because Lucas could only play it by ear now. They reached another gap and Tim didn’t hesitate, dodging through it and continuing in a westerly direction, away from the area where the Crew lay in wait.

They reached the fence and Tim stopped, panting from exertion, and looked up at Lucas. Lucas peered in the gloom at the barbed wire and spotted a fence post where the steel was wrapped around the wooden pole. He moved to the support and pushed against it with his foot, and it gave a few inches. He kicked it, and it shifted again. As he’d hoped, the post was driven straight into the mushy ground, with no concrete base to stabilize it. He stepped nearer and heaved at it, working it back and forth as he lifted, and after an agonizing few seconds the wood stake slid from the soil with a sucking sound.

He laid it flat on the ground and pointed at the wire. “Mind that. You go first.”

The boy obeyed, and Lucas followed him across before turning and righting the post. Tim whispered in the shadows, “Why are you doing that?”

Lucas drove the pole back into the hole and pushed down with all his might. When he was sure it wasn’t going anywhere, he whispered back to the boy, “No reason to leave an easy trail.”

Lucas took the lead again, and they skirted the fence and drove deep into the brush, eventually arriving at a trail that led back to where Sierra was hopefully still waiting a mile away, the rasp of Tim’s labored breathing the only sound. Lucas ran with an easy grace, pacing himself for endurance, and Tim did his best to keep up. He fell behind and Lucas slowed. When Tim caught up to Lucas, he looked at the ground. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“No problem. But you need to do your best to run as fast as you can, okay? Just until we make it to your mom. We have horses, so you’re home free from there.”

“I’ll keep up,” Tim said, his tone determined.

Lucas resumed his race to Sierra, slowing slightly in deference to Tim and also because without the monocle he had a difficult time being sure exactly where he was. They continued running for another ten minutes, and then Lucas stopped and pointed at the dark outline of a pair of horses.

“The big one’s Tango. The mare’s Nugget.”

“We’re there?”

“Finally.”

Lucas approached the tree where Sierra was perched in the branches, watching the factory through his binoculars, and called up to her in a stage whisper.

“Sierra? I’ve got Tim here.”

The leaves rustled and Sierra’s legs appeared. Lucas grabbed her waist and helped her down, and then she was running to Tim, tears coursing down her cheeks, softly saying his name over and over.

Tim sobbed right along with his mother, both of them whispering, “I love you,” repeatedly, her arms enveloping him in a tight embrace.

Tim pulled away slightly and murmured to his mother, “I knew you’d be back.”

“Of course, baby, of course. Nothing can keep us apart.” She hesitated. “I’m so sorry for everything you’ve gone through.”

Tim choked back more tears, his face growing serious, but for a brief moment he looked like a frightened young boy rather than a hardened field slave who’d suffered daily at the hands of brutal masters.

Lucas stood aside, giving Sierra some privacy, and moved to Nugget and lifted one of the saddlebag flaps to feel inside. He extracted their other night vision monocle and donned it while Sierra and Tim hugged each other, and switched it on to verify it was working. After a long moment he turned it off and searched Tango’s bag for his M4. He withdrew four full magazines along with the rifle, taking his time as he filled his flak jacket with ammo, and then gave Tango’s nose a rub, whispering a quiet word to the horse.

He waited half a minute before he swung up into the saddle and activated the M4’s night vision scope. Lucas raised it to his eye and gazed at the buildings through its high-magnification lens for any sign of pursuit, and when he saw nothing, thumbed off the power and rested the stock against the saddle horn.

He glanced at his watch and spoke to Sierra. “Get Tim into the saddle with you. We need to move. They’ll be after us soon enough, and they might have dogs.”

Sierra brushed away her tears and straightened as she released Tim and drew near Tango’s side. “Lucas, I can never repay you…”

“Save it for once we’re in the clear, Sierra. Mount up. It’s going to be touch and go.”

“How did you–”

He cut her off. “I had some help. I’ll explain later. Now get into the saddle, or this will all have been in vain.”

Sierra didn’t need to be told again. She boosted Tim onto Nugget and hoisted herself up, the boy seated in front of her. Lucas took a final look around and then snapped the reins and guided Tango deeper into the brush, keenly aware that now every second of lead they had might be the one that bought them their lives.

Chapter 44

Zach stared at his handheld radio like it had bitten him. The report from the rum plant emanated from its speaker at whisper volume, the cane field around him muting the extent to which sound carried. He’d left instructions that nobody was to use the special frequency the handhelds had been tuned to unless it was an emergency, but what he was hearing qualified.